


He's Never Said Her Name

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s06e18 Milagro, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 18:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: Inspired by the prompt "Post Milagro- Mulder masturbating to Scully smut”There’s a tug in his groin as he imagines offering to rub her shoulders, sweeping aside her hair and laying his hands on her skin.  She’s got such beautiful skin, eggshell fine and almost translucent.  He thinks about her blood flowing, his fingers playing over the blue tint of her veins, the hitch of her breath as his thumb accidentally grazes an earlobe.





	He's Never Said Her Name

He’s never said her name, not while…  

Out of a sense of morality or something like that.  It wasn’t a conscious decision; it just…was.  

The letters though— they climb the walls of his throat, they growl against his tightly clenched teeth.

The hiss of the S is what starts it.  And then of course there’s the C.  Hard and sharp—it reminds him of _cock_ , and of _cunt_ , and of _—_ well, there are lots of good C words _._ Then the U— if he’s being honest, he rarely gets to the U. Because after thinking about _cocks_ and about _cunts_ and about _her_ , he tends to lose it—in a moan full of S’s and C’s and every other damn letter of the alphabet except for U, L, or Y.

His apartment, the restroom down in the basement, the shower stall at the gym, wherever really.  He’s not picky about ambience these days. It’s pathetic really, how desperate he is for her.  The location, the scenario, the color of her panties—doesn’t matter—you name it, he’s fantasized about it.  Twice.

But he’s never said her name.

He thinks it though. Thinks about breathing it against the soft, pink curl of her ear, whining it into the hot, wet depths of her mouth, groaning it against that sweet little dip between her shoulder blades, the one he’s never actually seen but can imagine as well as if he’d visited it a thousand times.

It’s good though. It’s smart—not saying it.  No sense getting too attached, he tells himself, as if that weren’t the most idiotic, laughable thing he’s ever thought. And he’s thought some pretty idiotic things through the years.  As if not saying her name somehow negates the fact that she’s the only thing he’s cared about, the only thing that’s kept him here on God’s green earth at times, since the second she stepped foot into his office, so many years ago.

The Pilot’s Knob Watcher is terrorizing Podunk, Kentucky.  And therefore, Mulder and Scully are terrorizing Podunk, Kentucky, too.  Not really.  No, really they’re in Louisville, and it’s not so much that they’re terrorizing the place as it is they’re investigating.  Same difference more or less though.  

It’s been a Day with a capital D, and as they pull across the gravel of the motel parking lot, he can tell she’s more irritated than usual with him, eyes rolling and sighs seeping from her lips at increasingly frequent intervals.  

“Dinner?” he asks meekly, but her glare hits him directly between the eyeballs before he’s even dotted his question mark.  He slinks off to his room, dick already swelling in his pants. What’s it say about him that he gets off on her irritation?  Her anger?  Never mind. He knows what it says.  It says he’s so far-gone, he’ll take any emotion she’ll throw at him, good or bad, just so long as it’s hers.

Her furrowed brow and huffy attitude should make him want her less, but instead… well, instead, he’s just glad she tends to take long baths with the classical station playing after days like this, when he’ll be right next door trying his damnedest not to make it as far as U when he comes.

He flops onto the bed, atop yesterday’s clothes and this morning’s paper.  The housekeeping leaves a lot to be desired at this particular establishment, but what else is new.  He hears her slam around a bit and imagines her pursed lips, the way she juts out her chin when she’s angry.  She can pack a lot of exasperation into that little body of hers.  

And see, there’s the problem.  Because thinking about Scully’s body, even an exasperated one, is what leads him to trouble.

The sound of water running next door is another problem. Water running means sharp-edged blazers are coming off, chunky heels and suntan-tinted hose are being shed.  As if on cue, he hears the muffled clunks, one then two, and the sound of Mozart beginning to drift through the wall.  He feels a sudden tenderness wash through his bones. He drives her to this—to pinching the bridge of her nose in rundown motel rooms, to trying to destress in bathtubs that are too small, even for her, while fuzzy violins crackle across struggling radio frequencies.

There’s a tug in his groin as he imagines offering to rub her shoulders, sweeping aside her hair and laying his hands on her skin.  She’s got such beautiful skin, eggshell fine and almost translucent.  He thinks about her blood flowing, his fingers playing over the blue tint of her veins, the hitch of her breath as his thumb accidentally grazes an earlobe.

A few months ago, he read the typewritten words of another man’s desire for her, committed them to memory with a gun in one hand and his cock in the other.   When threatened, an organism will inevitably choose between fight or flight.  And where Scully’s concerned, you’d better believe he’ll choose fight every time.   He’ll choose brawl, he’ll choose battle, he’ll choose _massacre_.  Another man’s words are no match for Fox Mulder.

But still, those words— _Wild…feral…aroused—_ they pop into his consciousness at the most inopportune times.  In the car or standing in line at the coffee stand, confined in the small, tight space of an elevator.  He’s always done his best to keep his fantasies in check.  Not too often, not too specific, not too demented…  But seven years of ‘in check’ is a lot to ask of fantasies.  Especially those starring a woman like Scully.  He can’t get those damn words out of his head.  

_What would her partner think of her?_

The sound of water shutting off.  His dick hardens further and he cups himself through his dress slacks, grinds the heel of his palm down with a grunt.  What would her partner think of her?  Would he think of her in his bed, clit vibrating beneath his tongue, ass cheeks gripped firmly between his fingers?  Yeah, yeah, he’d think that. _Wild._ Or would he think of her up against the wall, plaster pulling at her hair, fingernails clawing at his back with each and every thrust?  That one, too, most definitely.   _Feral._ Or perhaps in the bath, bubbles slick and pussy even slicker, small delicate fingers thrusting away the tension of the day?  Yesss, yes, for absolute certain. _Aroused._

He lifts his rear, sliding down his pants and boxers, leaving them bunched at his knees as the cool air hits.  The music seeping from her room is muffled but soothing.  His eyes close.  He’ll take Fantasy #3 for $200 tonight please, Alex.

Scully, wet and slippery, hands drifting over her skin…  His dick twitches as he settles in for the ride.

Gotta start from the beginning though.  Her clothes, sliding off her tense little body, piling themselves up on the floor. Wool and rayon, followed immediately by satin and lace.  Beautiful, so beautiful.  Admittedly, he’s only seen glimpses, but those glimpses are more than enough for him to fill in the blanks.

There’s a flush, in his mind, blooming across the skin of her chest.  Perhaps she’s thinking about what she’s about to do.  Perhaps she’s thinking about him.  “Dammit, Mulder,” she mutters as her toes dip in, “Half-cocked theories…”  He licks his thumb and circles it around the head of his cock, nothing half about it.  

Slowly, she’d ease herself into the water, images of her aggravating partner running through her brain, eyes closing and nipples hardening as she adjusts to the change in temperature.  Maybe she’d tweak them just a bit before letting them sink below the water.  Because even though he irritates her, she sometimes just can’t help herself.

He groans, swiping himself up and then down, pinching his own nipples just so he knows how it feels. She’d play with hers for a while, he thinks, twisting and tugging, tongue sliding slowly over her lips while she tries to get him out of her mind.  It’s futile, he knows—God knows he’s tried, but the best he’s been able to do is avoid saying her name.  “God damn you, Mulder,” she finally breathes, relenting, neck arching back as her fingers travel lower.  

He takes another swipe and groans again, this time even louder.  

Padgett didn’t know shit about her.  Padgett didn’t know about the honeysuckle bubblebath she buys, how she brings a bottle along on every single case, just for nights like this. He didn’t know she prefers Mozart to Bach, Chopin to Tchaikovsky, sensual satin pajamas to boring old flannel.  And he damn well didn’t know the sweet, soft feel of her breath just seconds before she’s about to be kissed, tears streaming down her cheeks in a sad and empty hallway.

His strokes are coming faster now, saliva and pre-cum easing the way.  Music still drifts through the walls, and he imagines her hands again, one still squeezing the flesh of her breasts, but the other slipping down further to play between her folds.  Her breaths would be quick by now, her forehead damp, water perhaps splashing as her movements swell.  

Maybe she’s saying his name, resigned but still pissed, taking out her frustrations with the movements of her hand beneath the water, “Mulder” seeping through clenched teeth in between whimpers.  He’ll take it—her resignation, her irritation, her everything.

“Scully,” he almost whispers, but stops himself.  She’d be wet, and not just from the water. He wonders what she likes—a hard and fast pounding or a slow seduction of her clit, fingers circling, grinding.  He takes comfort in the fact that Padgett didn’t have any more of an idea than he does.  Tonight though, he thinks she likes it hard, he thinks she’ll brace her feet against the end of the tub and work herself over until she’s frantic and desperate for release.  French-manicured tips gripping the porcelain edge, wet tendrils of hair painted across her cheeks—she wants it, oh does she want it.

His hand is a blur by now, thinking about her, trying _not_ to think about her, trying instead to think of Susan or Scarlett or Savannah, because that S is already hissing up his throat.  He cradles his balls, tries to slow down, thinks of tits and ass and blondes and brunettes, five foot ten with latex painted onto their skin. Thinks of the sluts in his movies, legs up to here with a dick in each hole, anything, _anything_ but her.  

It’s no use though.  She’s there, she’s always there, whether she should be or not.  He’s pumping, both hands now, frantically, almost violently, and all he can see is Scully, her eyes squeezed shut and the most breathtaking grimace transforming her face, water pooling on her motel bathroom floor and his name coming out in short, quick pants from her lips.  And oh, she’s beautiful, she’s so fucking beautiful.  

“Oh God,” she gasps, “Oh my fucking…”  She’s moaning now, can barely contain herself. He swears through the walls he can hear her, “Muuuu…,” but before she finishes, her fist is in her mouth, muffling the rest of her cry.

She comes in a tsunami of bathwater, hips arcing skyward while her little fingers just keep going, riding out the waves as her head thrashes to and fro.  

And it’s enough, it’s more than enough. He comes, too, spilling over quick, frenzied hands and today’s overripe dress shirt, “Scuuunnghng…,” escaping in an agonized groan before he’s able to stop himself.  It’s bitter and depressing, but he’s used to it.  He’s done bitter and depressing for years.

He washes his hands afterwards, and hears the faint hum of water draining next door.  It travels through pipes that probably connect with his, deep in the ground below their hotel rooms.  There’s something strangely comforting about that.

The music shuts off. The stripe of light below their connecting door goes black.  

He flicks on the television.

The letters of her name collect again deep in his throat, readying themselves for next time.


End file.
